


Get Down On It

by pettikotes



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: (sort of), Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Roadtrip, Sick Fic, Some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 15:24:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15122333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettikotes/pseuds/pettikotes
Summary: Q learns to negotiate the experience of his affection for James Bond. All it takes is a stomach virus, a late 90’s hatchback and an escape from the French Riviera.





	Get Down On It

Of all the available small disasters to fixate on, the one that Q chose to actively focus on was the one thousand, two hundred and twenty three kilometers between himself (and his bile-stained charcoal grey bespoke groomsman suit) and his dark, unmade bed in England.

Traveling had never suited him, and after a flight from Heathrow to Le Castellet, a disappointing exchange with a rental car associate and a lonely drive to the Chateau Le Cagnard, sprinkled with a stomach bug rearing its ugly head during the rehearsal dinner the night before, he felt wrung to the _core_.

Of course, the bride and groom had been resplendent. He’d felt nothing but joy and relief when the officiant introduced Mrs. Eve Tanner, and not just because it signaled the end of casual workplace conversation about the cost per stem of coral peonies in the bouquets. Despite his reluctance to be involved beyond guest capacity in any wedding ever, there was a sort of tender pride that pierced through the sheet of cynical distaste in seeing his colleagues, his friends, _wed_. _Happy_.

The Tanners had walked, blissfully, down the aisle underneath a rain of lavender and flower petals, and the mood began to fade at the realization that ahead of him spread a sweaty, nauseous night of groomsman duties, nibbling bland biscuits and sipping water, rather than indulging in a slice (or two) of decadent wedding cake and champagne. Four days of vacation time wasted, fingers itching for regained control of his post, his friends wed in the beautiful south of France, and none of it for him to enjoy.

“You’re looking a bit peaked.”

Oh, and _Bond_.

Bond, with his dumb, smirking face, propped against the entrance of the gentlemen’s suite looking like he’d just _sprouted there_ amongst the expensive wood and leather dressings, pleasantly tanned and an effortless sort of handsome in his sandalwood suiting.

“Yes, thank you. That’s the look I’m going for,” Q mumbled, scrubbing at his blush tie. He felt his stress level ramping up. Bond slipped the rest of the way into the suite, closing the door behind him, inspecting the whisky in the crystal decanter, before pouring himself a sip into someone’s used glass. _I hope it’s mine, goddamnit_ , Q thought. Bond had no business being in here looking that good while Q looked and smelled like sick and an unfortunate overcompensation of cologne.

“Bill and Eve will be making their entrance, are you joining the wedding party to welcome them?”

Q dropped the soiled handkerchief and gripped the edge of the kitchenette, looking at his warped reflection in the stainless cupboard above the sink. Every knee-jerk remark drained out of him, and he sighed, spitting in the bowl.

“Just… _give_ me a moment,” he shuddered, another cramp rippling through him and raising the hair on his arms. He felt more than saw Bond’s assessment, and forced himself to spit another string of saliva into the sink in lieu of answering Bond’s unconvinced ‘ _okay_ ’.

Once he was certain the door was closed, Q took a shaky sip of tap water in a wine goblet, and emptied his stomach once more in the tiny sink before he could make it to the toilet.

* * *

 

Cheers. Dancing. Fairy lights. Wedding standards, Nat King Cole. Stone Beach at sunset. It was all _terribly_ romantic, Q thought, leaning over the terrace and taking in the cooling gusts of sea air. It cooled the sweat on his skin along with the sips of club soda. He’d briefly considered the gelato cart the Tanners had hired to entertain and cool the guests, but he couldn’t chance anything more flavorful than water or toasts.

“I thought you’d be face down on your bed by now, Q, not sulking over the French Riviera,” Bond offered, now merry and loose from what Q was sure had been more than his fair share of champagne by the bar. The aged lines and textures of his skin looked softened from each angle, thanks to the alizarin of the dipping sun and the warmth of the lights strung. Q felt sick and muddled, annoyed with Bond for repeatedly piercing his covetous solitude. _Let me suffer in silence, you heartless lush!_

“You’d be sulking too if you’d forked over twenty-two hundred pounds for the pleasure of a four night vomit-fest, Bond.”

Bond shrugged, and Q rolled his eyes. Of course twenty-two hundred pounds wouldn’t faze James Bond.

“You didn’t enjoy Provence, then? The lavender fields?”

“I’m allergic to lavender,” Q said, spitting over the stone wall as the unwelcome memory of the scent crept to his nose.

“Shame. Well,” Bond sighed, “at the end of the day all of this is for Bill and Eve, not you.”

Q felt his skin heat with embarrassment, and he turned to meet Bond’s blue eyes.

“Tch, goodbye Bond. If all you’re going to do is try to make me feel a pissy ungrateful child for hoping for the first good time since Christmas, then good. bye,” Q replied, proud he’d not let Bond put that on him. Of course he felt guilt under the layer of nausea for being a miserable party guest, but he could be terribly selfish and happy for the Tanners at the same time. Bond smiled, his eyes tightening just so.

“Dance with me then, and stop acting like such a disgruntled little pelican.”

“I’m not _little_.”

Bond’s eyebrow raised, and he took a slow sip of champagne.

“Also, no.”

One healthy gulp finished the drink, and Bond set the flute on the stone wall in front of Q. Pouting, Q extended his fingers and pushed the flute over the edge, and they watched together as it shattered against the rocks below.

“Wasteful.”

“ _You’re_ wasteful. Can you leave me be?”

“Your foul mood is out of place.”

  
“For the love of… go find some other pariah to comfort.”

Q turned his head as the guests began cheering at the opening of the song, pairing off once more. He felt itchy.

“Alright, then. Goodnight, Q.”

Itchy and his chest felt tight, watching Bond give in and turn back to the crowd. Leave it to the bastard to leave him unhappy with or without him. Maybe he was just unhappy by nature. Waspish, unhappy and _itchy_. Q gave Bond enough time to become woven into the crowd, before pushing himself off the wall and dragging himself towards Eve and Bill to say “congratulations” and “thank you” and “so sorry but I feel like hot garbage” and attempt a quiet exit to his room to change into a comforting sweater and jeans, humidity and summer be damned, chuck his toiletries and clothing into his travel case and then into his laughable hatchback. He wrangled himself an early flight back to London, and pulled up a cute picture of his cats as he slid into the driver’s seat, affording himself only a moment to wobble back and forth between fantasies of Bond being disappointed that he’d left, and smug that he’d pushed Q into retreat. Both were giving the man too much credit, given his penchant for easy ambivalence. Q Jammed the key in the ignition and took once last glance at the Chateau.

He turned the key, and startled when he heard the hatch open, the chime dinging in warning. The sunset behind him grew slimmer, and a thick leather duffel was stacked above his own case. Q felt dizzy, and his heart sped up. Now Bond was shoving… a veritable bush of peony into his back seat. And what was that clinking noise? Q flipped on the overhead light to find Bond’s graying blonde head arranging what had to be a half dozen bottles of very expensive champagne onto the floorboard. So many questions, Q had so many questions.

“What is all of _this_ shit?!” He cried, feeling more nauseous as he turned in the seat to get a better view.

“I stole it.”

“You stole… is that an amphora from the centerpieces? You stole an entire of _amphora_ of flowers?!”

“Yes.”

“What the fine fuck _for_?!”

Bond leaned the small clay amphora against the passenger side door and fluffed the flowers out.

“Scoot into the passenger seat,” Bond directed. “This is a really awful car, Q. How did you even get this?”

Q frowned.

“I don’t know, everything else was booked up.” Flapping wasn’t a great look for him, but he felt flappy. So itchy. Thirsty. _Disgruntled little pelican_.

“What are you doing, Bond?” _Why do I even have to ask?_

“We’re going for a drive, of course.”

Q blew a laugh from his gut.

“We are not. I’m going to the airport.”

 Bond slid into the driver’s seat, and wiggled around, unimpressed. He started adjusting the vents, the air (all thoughtfully to blow cool air on Q), and to find some music.

“It has a cassette player, even.”

“It has something jammed in there, some former teenager’s cry-driving mixtape no doubt,” Q snorted, mashing his finger on the eject button repeatedly.

“Sounds promising,” Bond mumbled, swatting Q’s hand away and pressing play. The cassette whirred in the player, before playing the first song. Q groaned. Bond bobbed his head a few times to the bass line, before tilting his head towards Q.

“What is this?”

“It’s... oh, what were they called. Smash Mouth. It’s a thousand years old, just like you.”

Bond flashed his most charming smile, lips a perfectly mischievous pout, and leaned his seat back and pulled off the street towards the A8. And as Q watched Provence disappear in the rear view mirror from his hatchback full of Dom Perignon and stolen wedding flowers, he damned his inability to resist.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 007 Fest 2018. I thought I’d try my hand at writing fic for the fest and I have no idea what I’m doing, so.


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